Relapse
by devilishblacksheep
Summary: What if Warren decided to take the Cure? This is the story of Warren's decision and the events that follow. Don't mind me, it's just my random madness.
1. The Cure

**More of my random madness…After seeing X3, and watching the part where Magneto seemed to be getting his powers back, I got to thinking. I know, always a bad sign. LOL. So, me being me, I thought what if Warren actually took the Cure, and then it wore off? I know, I'm mean. But it would be interesting, right? So, here it is, finally.**

**I own nothing other than the idea of this story, and am making absolutely nothing off of this. Just so you know.**

He opened the door to the roof office of Worthington Industries, incredibly nervous. Did he really want to do this? After ten years of testing, his father had finally managed to create a Cure for mutancy, and Warren was going to be the first to test the final product. After ten years of stares and whispering and isolation, he would finally be normal.

"Good morning, Warren. How did you sleep?" His father looked him in the eyes for the first time since he had walked in on Warren cutting his wings off when he was thirteen. After that their relationship had been strained, causing the distance between father and son to lengthen until they barely talked, and when they did it ended up turning into an argument over nothing. It was reassuring, knowing that after today things would be back to the way they were before. At least, that was the idea.

"Good," Warren said. Surprisingly good, considering how nervous he was now. He was making the right decision, right? Of course he was; who wouldn't want to get rid of such a disfigurement? It affected his entire life; he had to wear a long coat whenever he went outside, even in the summer, because otherwise his wings would show. He had to sleep on his stomach because it hurt when he lay on his wings. He had to be careful when he sat down or else he would sit on them, which hurt. He couldn't do anything without thinking about how he would work around them; he couldn't wait for them to be gone, when he could finally be free.

His father removed his coat, while Warren unbuttoned and removed his shirt, revealing an elaborate harness that held his wings tightly against his back. They walked over to the table where the Cure lay in a vial on a surgical stand. The orderlies backed him against a table, which had restraints attached to it. They then began to strap the restraints around Warren's wrists and ankles, despite his protests. "Really, you don't need to do that. I'm not going anywhere, honest."

"I'm sorry, son; it's just a precaution."

"The change can be a bit…jarring," added Kavita Rao, his father's assistant. She was holding a rudimentary gun with a needle on the end, and was inserting the vial of the Cure into the slot. This didn't lessen his feelings of nervousness in the least, but he pushed them aside. He was making the right decision, and if he wanted to be normal again he was going to have to put up with a little nervousness.

Kavita swabbed his arm, disinfecting the injection site, then put the needle up to his arm. "I'm proud of you, Warren," his father said. Warren smiled nervously.

He bit his lip as the needle pierced his skin, injecting the Cure into his vein. "And now, we wait," said Kavita.

A few minutes later, Warren felt a burning in his veins. Adrenaline kicked in, and he began to strain against the restraints. When the burning spread to his back, his breathing quickened, and his struggles increased. "Calm down, Warren," his father said, "You're okay. If you struggle any harder you're liable to hurt yourself."

"More than I hurt right now? Not likely," he hissed.

"Don't fight it," Kavita said. "The more you fight, the worse it will be."

Warren glared at her. She was one for comforting words, wasn't she. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but since his adrenaline was screaming at him to do something, he wasn't making much progress.

He scraped his back against the table, since the restraints wouldn't let him do it with his hands. He felt something give, and suddenly he felt lighter. He pulled against the restraints, and the things that had once been wings slid down to the floor. "Umm, Dad?"

His father looked over to see his son looking at him hopefully. "Can you undo the restraints now? I think it's over."

The older Worthington nodded and bent to undo the buckles of the restraints. One they were undone, he backed up, and Warren took a step forward and almost fell. He swore under his breath. Even after they were gone they still were a problem, as his center of balance had shifted after years of having a set of wings on his back. Now he had to adjust to compensate.

His father looked at him concernedly. "Are you alright?"

Warren nodded. "Yeah. It'll just take a little getting used to, that's all." He looked around the room, disappointed that things seemed to be a little blurrier. Not that they weren't still clear; he had perfect eyesight. It just wasn't the eyesight of a hawk anymore, that's all. And he felt a little heavier. Not a lot, but a little. So his bones obviously weren't hollow anymore either. He shook his head. Was he actually beginning to regret it? He decided not; as he had told his father, he was adjusting to the change, nothing more.

**What do you think? I'll post the next chapter once I get some reviews, I promise. Unless you don't want to know what happens next, in which case I won't…If you noticed, I fixed some of the errors I made in "Belonging", namely that it is Kavita Rao, not Moira McTaggert that is Worthington's assistant…shame on you for not noticing…nah, don't worry about it, actually. I'm too lazy to fix it in the other story, but it's fixed here…and I'll stop talking about it, since I doubt most of you actually care, and the ones who do probably yelled at their computers enough when they were reading "Belonging" (if my behavior is any indication…maybe I'm just crazy…lol). Anyway, I'll stop rambling now. Promise. Just review, okay? Thanks…lol.**


	2. Nothing Lasts Forever

**For all of you who are actually interested in this, thank you for indulging my madness. Here's the next chapter, up for your reading pleasure. Again, I own nothing, and am not getting paid for anything written here. The characters in this chapter do not belong to me (much as I would love to own a certain feathered mutant…mine is an evil laugh), and instead are the property of Stan Lee and Brett Rasner and the other people involved in the X-Men franchise. I think that about covers it, so I'll let you get on to the story now.**

As the days passed, Warren fell into his new life quickly. There were board meetings his father encouraged him to attend, since he would someday be inheriting the company and, now that he was normal, he would be expected to attend those meetings and be visible. There were dinners, both in expensive restaurants and at home, with representatives from the various companies Worthington Industries did business with, and Warren was expected to attend all of these too. It was a huge change from before, where his father would barely let him leave the house unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then he had to wear the harness and long coat and bulky clothing to hide his disfigurement. In the beginning he would catch himself looking wistfully out a window, wondering if it would be a good day for flying, or wishing he could escape the endless meetings. Over time these feelings passed, or so he told himself, and he got into the rhythm of things, absorbing all the information his father fed him about how to run a business; which clients were most receptive to which types of pitches, how to manage people, and other "vital" skills.

But, unfortunately, this fairy tale was not to last. A few weeks later, Warren was woken by an itch on his back. He itched absentmindedly, not realizing what it meant until he felt something dripping down his back. He walked over to the mirror, pulse speeding up, and turned around, looking over his shoulder, praying to whatever god was listening that it didn't mean what he feared it did. He was greeted by two projections jutting out of his shoulderblades, blood from their surfacing dripping down his back. "Damnit," he whispered. "No, no, not again. This can't be happening." He reached around his back to touch them. They were real. The Cure was wearing off.

The scientists had warned his father that this might happen; the source of the Cure had a limited range of its ability, and the effects were only temporary. But his father had shrugged it off, believing that it was unnecessary worry. Initial testing had been positive; nothing showed that the effects of the Cure itself were temporary. At least, nothing until now. The growths seemed to be mocking him. He was a freak, he had always been a freak. Even as a child, he had possessed much better eyesight, reflexes, and hand-eye coordination than his peers, which had caused him to shy away from all sports, fearing that he would bring attention and ridicule to himself through his uncanny abilities. And now, just when he had been getting used to a truly normal life, his curse had to resurface.

He returned to the habits of his adolescence, wearing baggy clothes to hide the rapid growth of his wings. He knew better than to attempt to cut them off again, as they had only grown back after the first time he had attempted such a thing. Warren spent an increasing amount of time alone in his room, politely declining invitations and ignoring his father's requests to join his parents for dinner. He was constantly in excruciating pain, as his wings grew quickly, waking him up in the middle of the night to discover that they had grown six inches in the few hours he had been asleep, and his body was rapidly returning to its previous state, his eyesight and reflexes sharpening and the loss of the few pounds he had managed to gain since he had taken the Cure. But he was a Worthington, and as such he knew how to project the appearance of normality.

The deception might have continued indefinitely had his father not needed to talk to him early one morning. Warren was getting dressed; his wings were restrained by the harness that had been fished out of the garbage when his father was at the office, and he was preparing to pull a shirt over his head when his father knocked lightly on the door and walked in.

"Warren, I was think-" he stopped, dumbstruck at the sight before him. Warren turned around quickly, and froze. He finished pulling the t-shirt over his head and stood there, glued to the spot, trying frantically to pull together some semblance of composure. "Umm, hi, Dad." He looked down at his feet, unable to meet his father's gaze.

"What is going on here, Warren?" His father asked, shocked. He stared at the two feet of wings that couldn't be hidden by the t-shirt Warren wore, unable to tear his gaze away. The Cure had worn off; the _things_ that he had worked so hard to get rid of had returned, marking his son as a freak once again.

Warren pulled his eyes from the floor, forcing himself to look at his father. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice so low his father almost didn't catch it.

"Get out." His voice was harsh, causing Warren to take a few steps backwards.

"What?" he asked, the hurt evident on his face.

"You heard me, get out of my house."

"But, Dad-" Warren pled. What had he done to deserve this? It wasn't his fault the Cure had only a temporary effect.

The older Worthington shook his head, cutting Warren off. What had happened? Things were going so well, and now the relationship that had begun to mend was strained once again. He wanted to hug his son, comfort him, tell him everything was all right, but he didn't know how; he was in too much shock to say anything other than the harsh words that rose unbidden to his tongue. "I have no son." He could start over, find a new way to cure the younger man's…problem (even now he couldn't see it for what it was, or even acknowledge the hurt and pain obvious in every aspect of the young man standing in front of him…not now. He was too concerned with the next step, how to "fix" him, to worry about comforting him. That would come later. Or so he told himself.).

Warren stood in front of his father, at a loss. "You can't do this, what did I do? I'll do whatever you want; you want them amputated? Okay, we'll make an appointment. I'll take the Cure again, I'll do anything. Just don't do this, please!" Desperation crept into his voice. He was grasping at straws, he knew it; once his father's mind was made up, there was no going back. But Warren couldn't stand the thought of being completely alone; even though his parents wanted him to be what he wasn't, they had always been around, and he knew what the world thought of people like him; they as a whole didn't like them, and not all of them were civil about it. His parents had protected him from them, as well as they knew how, and he wasn't sure how good of a job he could do of it by himself.

The older Worthington turned around, shutting Warren out. "Just leave, before I have to get someone to escort you out."

Warren stared at his father's back for a few long minutes, wishing the past few days had never happened. He had finally known what it was like to be normal, and it had been taken away just as quickly as it had been given. He sighed, packed a few things in a bag, and left the room, proceeding to the front door without even stopping to tell his mother he was leaving. He knew she would be upset, but he figured she would feel the same way about the situation as his father did, so it was better this way. Really, it was.

**I know, the whole Warren getting kicked out by his father thing isn't necessarily done the way I had envisioned it originally; I'm not entirely happy with it either (it seems a little too abrupt, not in keeping with the older Worthington's character)…but it's the best I could come up with…if anyone has an idea of how to do it better (with the same end result…I need that for the next chapter), by all means, let me know and I'll do a rewrite and repost this chapter. I'll appreciate any help I can get with it.**

**I don't think I need to tell you what to do at this point. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter…you give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside (I don't know; sometimes my fingers just kind of type things without consulting my brain as to whether or not it should be typed). Anyway, until next time.**


	3. Facing Reality

**Next chapter...yeah, I know, it's been like forever since I've updated anything. Sorry about that; I didn't have access to my laptop over winter break, and I've been swamped since I got back to school. And yeah, I know, I promised I'd update Control before anything else...I kinda got distracted. The last chapter will be up, I promise, I just need to get into it...you all probably know how that is. Anyway, here's a chapter to tide you over until then; enjoy.**

Warren walked down the street, not noticing how late it was getting or where he was going. His father had kicked him out of the house, unable to accept his failure. He was angry at his father for refusing to even try to overlook the mutation, although why he had thought things would be different this time around escaped him. It wasn't like having the son his father had always wanted was suddenly going to give him a change of heart about mutation; if anything, it would make it worse. He rolled his shoulders subconsciously, trying to ease his discomfort in the harness even a little bit, but it didn't help; the straps were unresisting, giving him no room to stretch whatsoever.

He heard a noise from behind him, and emerged from his thoughts, noticing his surroundings for the first time. He was in an alley in the "bad" part of town, where it was rumored that a mutant gang called the Morlocks terrorized anyone who was anti-mutant, or showed any tendencies towards being anti-mutant.

He looked in the direction of the noise, and didn't see anything. He let go of the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, but his relief was short-lived. He was shoved into a wall by what looked like nothing, hard enough to knock out the breath he had taken before he was attacked. He winced as his wings were pressed into the brick wall by his weight, hearing a few muffled cracks on impact. His attacker materialized, revealing itself to be a teenage boy, a few years younger than Warren himself. The boy had a smirk on his thin face, and was clad all in black, with a leather jacket and fingerless gloves. "Hey, you're that Worthington guy, the one with the wings, right?"

Warren nodded. "But you already knew that, didn't you?" He responded, sounding braver than he felt. He struggled, trying to loosen the harness enough that he could break it when he opened his wings, but the kid wasn't letting him move, only pushing against him harder, which in turn elicited more cracks from his wings and winces from Warren.

"Take off your jacket."

"What?" This wasn't a comment he had been expecting from the kid in front of him.

"You heard me; don't make me repeat myself." He backed off enough to allow Warren to remove the jacket he had hastily put on before he had left the house, allowing the last few feet of his wings to be visible under the hem of his t-shirt.

"The shirt too," the kid demanded. "I want to see the mutation you think you're too good for." When Warren hesitated, he pulled out a gun that was so old and dirty that Warren doubted it would fire. But, with the kid waving it threateningly at him, he didn't want to take his chances, so he reluctantly pulled off his shirt too, dropping it on the ground on top of his coat.

The kid approached him again, pushing him back against the wall. "Nice," he said, fingering a feather. "It's a pity it's wasted on someone like you." He ripped out the feather he was holding, causing Warren to yelp involuntarily.

"Do they at least work?" the kid asked, sneering.

"Umm…yeah." Warren answered. Maybe if he was cooperative the kid would let him go. He felt stupid for being essentially held hostage by a kid who barely reached his shoulder, but there wasn't much he could do about it; the kid was stronger than he was, since he was still weak from the changes his body had undergone over the past few days, and held a gun on him, neither of which made any of his attempts at escape successful. He shivered, wishing for the warmth of his jacket, but the kid ignored his obvious discomfort, instead launching into a speech about mutant rights that sounded rehearsed. "Not that you've ever used them, right? I mean, you don't even see what a gift this is. I'm sure there are thousands of people out there, wishing they had what you do. And you don't even see it, do you? You're so busy trying to hide it, trying to hide what you are from Them." He snorted. "You don't deserve those."

"You want them? Fine; take them."

The boy stared at him. "That's really how you feel, isn't it? Too busy trying to please everyone else, to make them like you. Trying to fit in where you don't belong. You disgust me." He spat, the glob of spit landing on Warren's face and slowly dripping down. Warren would have wiped it off, but he figured that would only piss the kid off further, so he did nothing.

"You'll never be one of them, you know," the boy continued. "You're one of _us_, _Homo superior_. We're the next step in evolution; they're nothing. We're the future of humanity."

Warren began to struggle again, under the pretense of warming up. He could feel the straps of his harness beginning to loosen, so he began flexing the muscles in his back, forcing his wings to push against the leather, slowly weakening it. It was a slow and excruciating process, jarring the broken bones in his wings, made more so when the kid realized what he was doing.

But a few minutes more and it didn't matter. With a final push and a resounding snap, he broke the leather and opened his wings, using the momentum to push the kid out of his way. He leapt into the air, forcing his wings down to get some lift, and was off, beginning a climb that would take him far above the buildings.

Or, that was the idea.

What actually happened was that when he leapt into the air and forced his wings down, the tips brushed the ground, giving him insufficient lift to get off the ground. He fell to the ground, landing on his left side, including the wing. He hissed in pain as he heard and felt the fragile bones break, adding to the now significant number of broken wingbones. The likelihood that he would have been able to simply fly away from the situation had been tenuous before, but now it was impossible; there were just too many broken bones for the wings to catch the wind right and allow him to glide, let alone sustain a high-stress activity like flapping.

The kid approached him, stopping when he got to Warren's prone form, looking on with a sneer as Warren struggled to sit up as much as he could without jarring anything. When the kid kicked him, he was caught off-guard, and fell back down, groaning when he half-landed on his already injured wing. He swore under his breath, and resumed his attempt to get upright. He rolled himself over so he was now on his hands and knees, and was rewarded with a kick to his side. He fell again, and coughed a few times, trying to get some air into his lungs. The next time the kid's foot came near him, he was ready; he waited until the kid was close, then snapped open his good wing, knocking the kid over. He carefully stood up, looked at the unconscious boy lying nearby, shook his head, and shifted his attention to the wing that was more injured. He tried to open it, but it didn't do very much, and it felt like it was on fire. He bit his lip, stifling the cry in his throat, and reached his arm around his back to probe the damage. It was a feathery, pulpy mess, having had most of the bones that made up its structure crushed. It hung limply at his back, as if it wasn't really even a part of him. Most of the nerves were damaged as well, which he was grateful for, since he knew that if they were still intact the pain would be ten times worse. He pulled his wings in as much as he could stand, swearing to himself that he had broken the harness, and pulled on his t-shirt, being careful not to get it stuck in the partially congealed blood on his wings as he pulled it down over his torso. He then picked up his jacket and put it on over the shirt, and, satisfied that he looked as normal as possible under the circumstances, left the alley.


End file.
